


What's Mine is Yours

by sixtysevenlmpala



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-14 16:22:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/838910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sixtysevenlmpala/pseuds/sixtysevenlmpala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First wincest I ever wrote! Short fluff about how wearing Sam’s clothes makes Dean feel better when he’s down or hurt or sick. Based on the observation that the hoodie Dean wears through “Faith” looks really similar to one Sam wore earlier in season one. Originally posted on <a href="http://sixtysevenlmpala.tumblr.com/post/45640222093/ive-never-properly-written-wincest-before-and-i">tumblr</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What's Mine is Yours

It started when they were young. Dean was eleven years old and bed-ridden; chicken-pox. He was miserable, and his dad was trying, he really was, but when you’re tracking down a nest of vamps it’s hard to find time to make your sick kid some soup of an evening.

“Dean,” a little voice whispered, breaking through feverish dreams and stirring Dean awake.

“Wh—? Sammy,” he mumbled, squinting and trying to sit up.

“I just wanted to give you this,” his little brother explained shyly, shoving something faded green and woolen into Dean’s arms. Dean blinked down at it, uncomprehending. “It’s my lucky sweater,” Sam told him. “It’ll make it better.”

And Dean smiled, said, “Sammy, I don’t think it’ll fit,” but Sam only needed to turn the mother of all pouts on him for Dean to end up drifting back into sleep with the little bundle of green in his arms, his nose buried in it and filling his head with the safe, familiar scent of his brother, the only home he’d ever known.

The next morning, he was still covered in just as many itchy spots, but he woke up with a smile, and he made the soup himself.

So that’s how it started.

***

“Have you seen my hockey jersey?” A gangly, thirteen year old Sam demanded through their bathroom door, banging his fist against it for good measure. The sudden noise pierced into Dean’s hangover from hell and he winced.

“Uh,” Dean replied intelligently, freezing on the other side. He looked down at himself. The purple-blue fabric was a little snug in places, but not enough to be uncomfortable; the thing was about a hundred sizes too freakin’ big for Sam, anyway. In the mirror behind him, Dean could read the ‘WINCHESTER’ emblazoned across the back. “No?” he answered lamely.

There was a pause, and Dean held his breath.

The bathroom door didn’t have a lock, and he wasn’t sure how to explain this if Sam just barged right in.

“Okay, whatever,” Sam sighed eventually. “I’ll just go without. I’m leaving for school, I’ll see you later,” he called, footsteps already retreating.

After an appropriate amount of minutes, Dean cracked open the bathroom door and, checking if the coast was clear, dragged himself over to his bed and flopped down onto it. His head was pounding and he felt like his brain was stuffed with cotton wool - too much of a party last night - but he was surrounded by the simple warmth of his brother, and steadily, it eased.

***

“C’mon, Sam, we gotta move,” Dean barked gruffly; it was way too early in the morning and late in the hunt for him to be anything approaching courteous to a brother who just _would not hurry his shit up_. Dad had already left, and he was expecting Dean to get them both there ASAP. “Another death, next town over, exactly the same. What the hell is taking so long?” As he asked the question, Dean made an irritated gesture out of flailing his arm around, and he winced, pressing a hand to the wound he’d sustained the previous day. They’d come so close to ganking that werewolf son of a bitch, but it’d got away, along with a nice chunk of Dean’s forearm in its claws.

“Sorry, sorry, I’m just looking for my—” Sam halted mid-bustle, and stared at Dean.

“What?” Dean said, apprehensive.

“Are you… are those _my_ jeans?” Sam pointed incredulously towards Dean’s legs, and Dean looked down dumbly.

“Oh,” he managed, smiling crookedly. “Must’a been a mistake. Sorry, Princess. You gonna pick up the pace a little now or what?”

Sam stared at him a little too long, just long enough for Dean to shuffle his feet, the beginnings of awkwardness tweaking at him. “How’s the arm?” Sam asked.

“It’s… better,” Dean replied slowly, honestly.

“Right.” Sam nodded, as if the conversation made the slightest bit of normal sense. “Sure. Let’s go.”

***

(It’s always been a comfort thing.

If Dean was hurt, or sick, or hell, just downright sad, Sam was the one he’d be counting on to make it better. Sam usually didn’t know he was doing it - it was just his presence, the fact of him being there and smiling at Dean like he hung the moon or dorking out over a new piece of lore or laughing carelessly over a couple’a cold ones.

But Sam can’t be there 24/7, okay, he’s not a superhero and they’re not joined at the hip, so maybe Dean needs a little something else, once in a while. Something that reminds him of Sam, makes him feel like he’s there with him, holding him and making it all okay.

It’s totally normal. Honest.)

***

After the jeans incident, there was a slight change.

Dean caught a stomach bug, and conveniently found one of Sam’s soft, worn t-shirts strewn carelessly by his motel bed -

Dean suffered a slash wound to his stomach after a vengeful spirit gone wrong, and once Sam stitched it all up, he laid Dean down to sleep on Sam’s bed, Sam’s pillows, not his own -

Dean had an intense shouting match with their dad, ended up sitting in the Impala and shaking with rage and God knows everything else too, and Sam knocked on the window, said, “Thought you might be cold out here,” and handed him his jacket without another word -

***

So, now it’s the present day, and Dean’s dying. It’s not something supernatural, and it’s slow, and it’s painful. It’s anticlimactic as anything, as well. Fucking electrocuted; where the hell’s the adventure in that?

His heart is failing a little more with every breath he takes, and Sam’s got all this… all this _faith_ that Dean just can’t invest in.

So maybe he shouldn’t be surprised when Sam walks into his room on the hospital ward, carrying an old, black-faded-to-grey hoodie; one that he took away to Stanford with him, and one that he brought back when Dean dragged him out. “Take it,” Sam says decisively, thrusting it towards him. “I don’t need it. You do.”

It’s the first time either of them has talked about it, acknowledged it at all, and Dean just opens his mouth, finds no words, and closes it right back up again.

“We’re gonna find a way to heal you, Dean,” Sam tells him with conviction, his eyes boring into Dean’s, “but in the meantime, just— just take it, okay?”

Dean reaches a hand out and weakly grasps the hoodie, letting Sam hand it to him. “Thanks, Sammy,” he says quietly, his fingers curling into the thick material like a lifeline. For all he knows, that’s exactly what it is.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, feel free to leave a comment/kudos if you liked! :-)


End file.
